Quick Watson, the Needle!
by Bojaciuk
Summary: "What one man can invent, another can discover." When a girl is found dead in an East End gutter, clutching an egg-like object, Sherlock Holmes is drawn into a millennia old war. (Takes place in the primary Madoka timeline, long before the first episode.)
1. One of Gregson's Little Gifts

[A wax record sets to rolling. Between the pop and crackle, you hear a firm voice. It could belong to any grandfather, and the smile carries across the years and leaps across the snaps with pleasure. Introductions end, business begins.]

To me, it will always be the being. I am not aware that it ever held another name, or a name at all. It eclipses the whole of its profession, so far as Holmes and I were aware, and shames Professor Moriarty to a professional silence.

I have outlived two world wars, gentlemen, and a number of smaller conflicts that seem increasingly irrelevant. Every day threatens to bring a third. And yet I do not think about Stalin, nor do I think about Eisenhower or any of our holdings. I only think about the man, silent within his cell, and wonder if we have done well or if we have done right.

[The old man coughs once, then begins. Occasionally, between the static, you hear the shuffle of pages. This has been written well in advance.]

Sherlock Holmes sat steady within his chair. His thick, brown fingers tattooed along the case, eyes downcast. He looked unnatural these days. Khartoum had browned him, Tibet had burnt him, and in the dim light of evening he looked hardly British. He dug a fingernail between morocco covers and spread the case upon his knees.

I was there. Worry not, this shall not be one of Arthur's contributions.

Instead, I was speechless. Holmes, after so long without a prick of morphia, sat contemplating his drugs. He ran a nervous forefinger down the valve.

"Which is it today?" he asked, never once looking up. "Morphine or cocaine?" Then he glanced upward, eyes bright. "Dear me." He shut the case with all the care of an old man with the family bible, and that infernal grin took over his face. "There is no fear of a relapse today, Watson. Close your mouth. Merely wondering what would lead a lesser mind to opiates, of a sort. I would be much obliged if you would lend your professional opinion." He indicated the mantel. "If you would take a glance?"

I stared at the object. Picture an egg made from a tight-set framework of bronze, burnished so dark as to be black. Four clear panes of glass were set into this framework, and held firm with a gold solder. The dip of the egg rounded into a point and this point carried on until it became a stem. A needle, obviously medical grade, haunted the very end of the stem.

"If you would..." and Holmes wobbled his hand. "Note the smoke."

I took it up by the stem and shook it as though it were a baby's rattle. And indeed, beyond the windows will-o-the-wisps arose and curled and settled back down beyond my sight. I turned the egg over so that the needle pointed toward the celling, and these black traces settled down into the topmost curve of the egg: an uncertain, eddying cough of cigar smoke. I replaced it upon the mantel.

"And its provenance?" I asked, dimly recalling his dictum of possessing all necessary facts.

"One of Gregson's little gifts. Our police force discovered it on a body in Limehouse and, as they always do when confronted with something outside their public school experience, they brought it around to me. Found on a corpse of a young woman. No marks upon her body, no signs of violence-obvious or subtle-and no pin-pricks or signs of injection whatsoever. Well dressed. The autopsy-neither the official nor my own, unofficial contribution to the case-turned up no trace of anything out of the ordinary. Aside from that-" he indicated the egg "-her pockets were otherwise empty and the tags had been ripped from her clothes. She was laid down between a bakery and a chemist; all associated persons claim a total ignorance of her and her history. Now, pray tell, what do you make of it?"

I clicked my tongue to buy another moment, then began, "The genteel addicts always do like to have a new way to consume their drug of choice, and this...decanter" I decided to call it, "is an example of that. The chemist was her lover and her suppler. They had a fight. Likely over something major. He slipped something deadly into her drug, which she took orally, and she expired on the spot. It must be an eastern drug which escapes usual forms of detection."

Holmes steepled his fingers before his face, and he left loose a shot of laughter. "Very good, Watson! You always do bring a case into such focus."

It was obvious what was to come. I tightened my mouth (to prevent myself from repeating the words alongside him).

"You illuminate the countryside, Watson, even when you are wrong."

"And where have I gone wrong?" It was an old dance, as old as the day we met, and I settled into my chair. As he began I poured myself Beaune.

"Invariably, from the first word. Your theory rests on gentlemen we have not met, a relationship we have not seen, and a drug that cannot be found."

"Which is to say, you know nothing either."

"Socrates did very well with that " He leaned back, settling his pipe in his teeth. "But it would be a false modesty to say I know as little as he. Have you noticed anything out of the ordinary with the needle?"

"It seemed perfectly ordinary. Its quality is doubtlessly good enough for the queen's physician. It seemed like it was made from-"

Between furnace-puffs of smoke he asked, "And how are the contents expelled?"

I opened my mouth to speak, closed it, then thought it threw as the moments flew away. The device had no piston. "I have no idea."

"If a logistician will only use his eyes and not his hands, he is as good as a blind man. The needle itself is the piston. When stabbed home with sufficient force, it will inject."

"But-it will all inject at once!"

"Yes. Therefore it is apparent that what is inside is at least non-fatal-immediately. She also could not have sampled your theorized drop without spilling the whole contents. Might we implicate it in her death? It seems likely. But it certainly wasn't the cause, else it would be missing or empty."

Pitter-patters traced across the slope of our window still, and a cat's head peered through. It dismissed us with a kingly glance, then leapt away. Holmes sat, listening, for some time before he pressed his finger to his lips and smiled. In a moment he was standing and across the room, looking down on Baker Street. Without turning, he continued, "My dear Watson. As you have nothing whatsoever to do tomorrow, would you sit up with me? My shipment has come in from Havana, and they must be enjoyed before our smog destroys the craftsmanship."

I rested my head on my palm and stared at his back. "I have not changed my clothes. I have not gotten mud about my trousers. I have not taken my eyes from you to glance at the bric-a-brac. Would you-"

He barked out a laugh. "Simplicity itself. I cheated. You left your datebook on the table."


	2. Even Mrs Hudson Could Detain Our Quarry

The cigars were excellent. Shipping had hardly taken the breath out of them. As we smoked, talking over little things that hardly concern the world of 1934, Holmes would occasionally rise. The first time, he stood within view of the window and yawned (anyone outside could see, if they squinted).

"Is the infamous insomniac to fall asleep before me?" I asked.

But he merely responded, "Not at all, Watson, not at all," as he pulled the curtains close.

The second time he rose, he turned the gaslights down to nothing. The third time, he kicked ashes over the fire and closed the gas. Our cigar ends were all the light that remained.

"This shall be our last smoke, but indulge me a moment further."

If it had not been evident from the first, it was clear now. We lay in wait. "Shall I fetch my-"

"Oh no, I feel certain even Mrs. Hudson could detain our quarry." He leaned across to me, and laid out his open hand. I narrowed my eyes at him in the dark, but to no avail; I slid my fingers into my vest pocket, claiming my scratched pocket watch, and laid it in his hand. He examined it by light of his cigar end.

"Have you smudged the face quite enough?"

"Nearly." A moment later, he returned it and sat back. "Douse your cigar in thirty seconds." I took one more drag, counted the seconds as I held the breath deep in my lungs, then ground out the flame in one of his stray stacks of newsprint. At that moment, I had some dim recognition that this would not be an easy night; he could not divide enough of his attention to nettle me for burning out part of his collection.

Darkness took us.

The moment I did this, a quiet tread settled on the first of the Baker Street stairs. I had heard these footfalls so often, and heard his deductions so much more often, that some of Holmes' deductions came to mind. It took no effort to fancy him saying /A woman, unquestionably. Very short, very thin, virtually emaciated. Barring the unlikely event she has a genetic deformity, we may trust she is beyond any rank of poor we may assign./ In that case, the adventure of the plague dogs, he was mistaken. But six months later he may prove to be correct.

When she mounted the final step and took the final turn to our sitting room, Holmes stood and waited in the pitch. A hand fumbled at the knob, withdrew, then turned it. Quick hands slid something metal between the door and the jamb. I raised my eyebrow. The door was unlocked, and our visitor knew it to be so. But she carried on with it, using her metal as a lever to wedge the door open.

A dim, dull glow carried her through our room and around all of Holmes' piles. Such a dull glow, I imagined, could only come from a dark lantern. Gentle steps took her along the wall of the room. When she came to Holmes' chemical lab, she sucked in a breath. The breath betrayed her as smaller than I had imagined. She felt along the table, scratching it with her nails, until she came upon the hypodermic egg.

Holmes could be a panther when he chose. He was already upon her, locking his hands around her arm.

"Watson, the gas!"

I pulled myself up as quickly as my wound would allow, and I turned the key of the gaslight as strong as it would go, and we saw...

If you men would fetch me a brandy, I would be most appreciative. Some things should not be described while sober.


	3. Phossy Jaw

**Author's Note: By the end of the next chapter, we should be roughly halfway through our case. This note is shared between this chapter, and the next, longer one. I've broken the chapters up to make reading more manageable, but there's no reason you should have to endure twice the amount of time with your author.**

 **I sheepishly admit to leaving an all important sentence or two out of the previous chapter. To save you the click: Holmes' guest is observed carrying a light with her. Watson assumes she has a dark lantern in her possession. But we all know what happens when you assume...**

 **Unbelievable though some details may seem, everything about the London streets and London sewers is accurate. Yes, every last detail. Nor has anything about the matchstick girls been invented. Phossy jaw is a real condition, and I have not exaggerated it; if anything, I have understated it. I'll save my historical rambling for a note posted at the end of this story. If you cannot wait for me to go on for thousands of words about Victorian London, and must know more now, I heartily recommend Lee Jackson's** ** _Dirty Old London: The Victorian Fight Against Filth_** **(Yale, 2014). Most good libraries will have it. If your library is of the bad sort, however, interlibrary loan may bring it directly to you.**

 **We'll begin to see how time and culture changes the ways of magical girls...**

[The wax record dutifully records the sound of a drink poured against glass, the clearing of an old man's throat, and the sort of crack that only comes when a man slams down his empty drink. A moment of silence follows, and only the crack and spittle of the record occupy your ears. Then the old man resumes.]

At the touch of my fingers, the gaslights surged to life.

Forty years of life have exposed me to many things, things which I cannot forget. There is still what the Afghans did to Wellman, and the sick sound of his breathing; there is still what the Ripper did to his prey; there is still holding my Mary's hand as she endured her last breath. None of these things came within leagues of preparing me for what the gas revealed.

She was a girl of no more than twelve, even though she was small enough to pass for a girl of eight or nine. The medical man wishes to write "her lower face was desiccated to such an extent the affected membranes had receded past her jaw, and the molars became exposed until the lack of gums led them to fall out. The wound appeared infected." Such a string of verbosity that might save me from remembering. But her lips had rotted away, until there was no longer even enough lip or cheek for a Glasgow smile. There was no skin left. There was no muscle left. There was only flesh and puss, and infinitesimal beings that squirmed in the wounds. Most of her teeth were missing; what few remained were exposed, and blackened, and cracked. None of this was the worst of it.

No. The worst of it was the glow. A dull, green-white glow. If any of you men are old enough to remember the white phosphorous matches, her jaw glowed the same color as the spark that came between the strike of the match and ignition. She had no lantern. She was her own light.

In the startled shock of the light, our guest's eyes widened. One hand went up around her mouth; her other, still in Holmes' grip, moved with him and scratched at his face. He turned his head away at the assault. In that half moment of distraction, she snaked her arm away and dashed down the stairs. The hypodermic egg was in her hand, and in that final moment all we bore witness to was a half-dressed, dirty sprite rushing away down our stairs.

"Watson!" he cried. But I was still by the light. My arm remained up, holding tight to the burning key. "Watson!"

I released the key. "Phossy jaw," I said, my mind swimming.

"Phossy jaw!" he repeated, clapping excitement into his hands. He already rushed toward the door. "She has quite the lead. Bring your revolver, if you would be so kind. I shall fetch a cab!" The last was shouted from bottom of the stairwell.

For old soldiers, orders bury scars. I collapsed the memory of the girl and her phossy jaw, and secreted it in the same corner of my mind where I hide the Afghans, and Gull, and Mary. I did that in a moment. By the time the memory was gone, my Webley was in my coat pocket. It had been only a moment. And soon, I too, was out in the streets.


End file.
